Page 13 of Falling for the Sheriff
Fueled by a boldness he inspires, I reach for the hem of my sweater. My eyes never leaving his, I pull it up and over my head in one fluid motion, letting it fall forgotten to the floor.
The reaction is instantaneous. Atlas’s next breath hitches, catching in his throat with a sound that’s half-groan, half-reverence. His gaze is a physical touch, scorching a path over my skin, from my bare shoulders down to the lace of my bra.
Then his eyes drop lower.
His expression doesn’t change, but I see the exact moment he registers it. The slight, firm curve of my stomach. The undeniable swell of the baby bump that is somewhat hidden beneath my clothes.
All my boldness evaporates. A cold wave of self-consciousness crashes over me. This part has definitely changed since the last time he saw me so bare.
For a terrifying second, he is utterly still. Then, he moves.
He doesn’t rush. He sinks to his knees in front of me on the floor, his eyes now level with my stomach. He reaches out, his hands hovering for a moment before he gently brushes my stomach with his thumbs as he looks up at me, his gaze fierce with an emotion so raw it makes my eyes sting.
“Look at me, Alice,” he commands, his voice low and unwavering. “You listen to me. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my entire life.”
He leans forward and presses a soft, lingering kiss right over the swell of our child. The gesture is more intimate than anything I could have ever imagined. It’s not a kiss of passion, but of devotion. A silent vow.
When he looks back up at me, his green eyes are blazing with a truth that erases every last shred of my doubt. “Every part of you,” he whispers. “Especially this. I’ll say it over and over until you grow tired of hearing it. I want you, Alice.Allof you.”
That’s all he has to say before I’m ready to just give him that.
6
Atlas
My fingers find the button of her jeans, and the simple act feels like the most important thing I’ve ever done. The denim is soft under my touch. I pop the button slowly, the sound loud in the quiet of the room. The zipper comes down next, a low rasp that has her breath catching in her throat.
I hook my fingers into the waistband, both denim and the soft cotton of her panties beneath, and slowly, so slowly, I pull them down her legs. She lifts her hips to help me, a silent, beautiful cooperation that makes my blood run hot. I toss them aside, my eyes drinking in the sight of her, finally bare and waiting for me.
I kneel on the floor between her legs, my hands sliding up the smooth skin of her thighs. I look up the length of her body, meeting her heavy-lidded gaze.
“I’ve been starving to get my mouth on you this whole time,” I tell her, my voice a hungry thing I barely recognize. “Since the moment you stepped inside the police department.”
A beautiful, deep blush spreads across her chest and up her neck. She doesn’t complain, doesn’t shy away. Instead, she lets her head fall back against the blankets with a soft sigh, and she spreads her thighs for me in a gesture of such perfect, trusting surrender that it steals the air from my lungs.
She looks down at me, her eyes wide and shimmering with disbelief. “Tell me I’m not dreaming. I’ve… I’ve imagined this so many times. I’m struggling to believe it’s really happening.”
I lean forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, feeling her tremble under my lips. “It’s real, Alice,” I murmur against her skin, my breath ghosting over her most intimate heat.
I don’t wait for a reply. I close the final inch between my mouth and her, and I taste her.
The first touch of my tongue to her center feels like a rush. She’s sweet and musky, a flavor uniquely hers that I know will be seared into my memory forever.
A low, guttural groan tears from my throat, the sound vibrating against her as I lick a slow, deliberate stripe through her slick folds. I’m melting. I’ve imagined this a thousand times, but the reality is a thousand times better. I’m starving, and she’s a feast.
My cock is throbbing in my jeans, a painful, insistent pressure begging for release. It wants in, wants to be buried deep inside the heat I’m tasting, but I’ll be damned if I don’t make her feel good first.
I slide my hands under her thighs, spreading her wider open for me, and I delve deep. My tongue pushes inside her, and the broken, keening sound she makes above me is the best thing I’ve ever heard.
Her hips jerk off the bed, seeking more pressure, and I gladly give it to her. I worship her with my mouth, licking and sucking, knowing what makes her gasp, what makes her fingers clutch at the ruffled blankets beneath her.
Then her hands are in my hair, her nails scraping against my scalp. It doesn’t hurt; it feels good. It feels like ownership, like she’s anchoring herself to me, and the possessiveness that surges through me is blinding. I look up, my gaze meeting hers over the trembling curve of her stomach. Her eyes are glazed, her lips parted on ragged breaths.
“Atlas…” she moans, my name a plea on her lips.
That’s all the encouragement I need. I find her clit with the flat of my tongue, circling it with a relentless rhythm I know will unravel her. I drink her in, lost in the taste of her, the sounds she’s making, the way her body is yielding to me completely. My own need is a secondary thrum, a distant ache.
Her hips lift off the bed, a silent, desperate plea for more. She grinds against my mouth, chasing her release with a frantic demand that pushes me right to the edge of my own control. Then, she stiffens.
